


amor vincit omnia

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (But Not The Nice Kind), Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Curses, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Modern Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12558952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: The fae are known to be cruel.  It's a fact of life, but it's not one Viktor Nikiforov has ever really put much thought into, given how much of himself he's poured into his skating career.  He's exhausted and low on inspiration, and perhaps inheriting a countryside mansion from a distant uncle is just what he needs to give himself a reset.  It seems perfect - not too far from town, plenty of space for Makkachin to run around, and an enchanting sense of magic.So really, it's too bad that it comes with a curse.(Or is it?)(Collab fic with art byMary!)





	amor vincit omnia

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful, lovely, wonderful art by Mary, who you can find [here](http://artofmarylarson.tumblr.com) (or, if my html skills suck and that link doesn't work, at artofmarylarson on tumblr)!
> 
> There are two songs linked in the text, if you want some mood music. :D

_Sento una voce che piange lontano…_

* * *

Setting the last box down with a grunt, Viktor takes a moment to survey the mess of his new bedroom.  It’s huge, for one thing, _much_ bigger than his apartment was, and he knows Makkachin appreciates all the new space she can romp around in.  It makes for a longer commute to the city and the rink, but he likes the place.  There’s a mystical air here, like there’s some kind of enchantment just under the surface and this entire mansion was plucked from the pages of a storybook, that drew him in when he first visited after finding out his great-uncle left it to him in his will.  It’s doing wonders for his inspiration already.

“Thanks for helping me move in!”  He dusts off his hands and turns to Mila, Georgi, and Yuri, who are the main reason his belongings all got into the building in so few trips.  “If you ever want a place to stay, I owe you, and I’ve got plenty of rooms now.”

“As if I’d ever want to stay out in the middle of nowhere with _you,”_ Yuri mutters, scowling.  “Can we leave yet?  I’m hungry, and you made me miss lunch with Yakov and Lilia.”

“Now, now,” Viktor chides, herding his rinkmates into the hallway, “you know they both said that carrying boxes all morning could easily count as strength training, so long as you don’t overexert yourself.  Hush.  We can go out for lunch, if you’re so impatient you don’t want to wait until the kitchen gets unpacked.”

“ _Hell_ no I don’t!”  Yuri glares as if the very notion is offensive.  Viktor has to resist the urge to ruffle his hair just to set him off.  “I have shit to do, old man!  Not all of us are so outdated that we can afford to just sit around waiting on you to figure out how your new stove works.”

“It’s pretty easy, actually,” Viktor informs him. “It’s a gas stove.  Simple.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust your cooking,” Yuri snipes.

“The blini you ate so many of last week at brunch at Yakov’s were actually Viktor’s, you know,” Georgi says, and Viktor flashes him a triumphant smile.  “You said they were good.”

“I did _not,_ ” contradicts Yuri, who definitely stuffed his face on the blini made from Viktor’s mother’s recipe and complained that he didn’t get to eat food this good on a regular basis.  “Besides, I was only saying that to make him feel better about his shitty cooking skills.”

“Aww, Yura!  How _sweet_ of you,” Mila gushes, clapping her hands to her cheeks.  “You’re absolutely _precious_ for wanting to make him feel better!  Nobody told me you were actually a nice person under all that grumpy face and cat hair!”

“Shut up, hag!”

“Children, children,” Viktor sighs, placing a hand on both of their shoulders.  “Please, no running in the halls of my new house.  I don’t want you breaking anything on the first day I’ve moved in!”

“I’ll break everything tomorrow then,” Yuri glares, shrugging him off immediately.  “Second day of you living here and nothing will work.”

“Aww, Yura!” Mila squeals again.  “You’ll come visit poor lonely Viktor in his big new house!  You’re the sweetest little baby on the face of the _planet!_ ”

“I’m going to fucking _kill_ you,” Yuri hisses.

“I’d like to see you try!”  Mila winks.  Georgi sighs and steps up his pace just a little bit, placing himself between the two of them.  Viktor (and his new hallway) is very grateful for this act of foresight.

They pause, as a group, for a moment when they reach the main entry hall.  Even though the building needed some cleanup and renovation before Viktor could move in, it’s still breathtaking in its splendor, decorated in dark emeralds and rich burgundies, accented with gold leaf here and there.  Makkachin is sniffing her way around the rug in front of the fireplace, and Viktor smiles at her as they start walking again, heading down the grand staircase.

“Why didn’t your great-uncle live here, Viktor?” Georgi asks.

Mila nods enthusiastically as she traces her finger along the scrollwork carved into the bannister.  “Yeah, seriously!  If I had a big mansion and a nice yard like this, you’d be hard-pressed to make me leave!  Is something wrong with it or something?”

Viktor shrugs and laughs.  “Ah, well, apparently he did live here for a while, but he moved out five or so years ago because he thought it was haunted or something silly like that.  I don’t know.  I hardly knew him.  I have no idea why he even left the place to me, let alone why he opted out of living here.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.  Mila and Yuri exchange glances.

“Alright,” Yuri says flatly.  “Viktor’s dead within the month.  I’d say it was nice knowing you, but Grandpa would be disappointed if he knew I was lying.”

Viktor snorts.  “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“No, but really, Viktor…”  Mila hesitates, serious for once in her life.  “You know when people say a place is haunted it’s usually because of the fae… if your great-uncle saw some of _them_ here, it might just be safer to stay away.”

And go back to his high-rise, modern, sleek apartment in the middle of the city with its modern furniture and empty walls and complete lack of personality, warmth, or spirit?  Viktor could laugh at the thought.  As if!  Makkachin is happy here, and he is, too.  Even if it’s day one.  He’s been needing a change, some kind of fresh start.  Maybe moving out of the city proper is what he’s been looking for all along.

And if that change comes with an encounter with the fae, well…

“The fae leave you alone if you leave them alone,” he says.  “Everyone knows that.”

Yuri snorts.  “Yeah, like your nosy old-fart ass could ever leave anyone alone.  I still say you’re dead within the month.”

_And so what if I am?_

But he can’t say that, not to Yuri or Mila especially.  They’re children.  They don’t need to know about the deep, confusing, dark thoughts that plague him in the bitter hours of the blackest nights.  They don’t know how stifled he’s been lately, how unable to get out of his own head.

So instead he just laughs.  “Oh, I don’t know, Yuri!  You know they like children better.  Maybe you shouldn’t come visit me tomorrow to break all my things after all!  What if you get spirited away, never to return…?”

Yuri stares at him, deadpan and scowling, for several seconds as they walk out the door into the courtyard, Viktor giving Makkachin a farewell pat as he goes.

“So you admit you’re old as balls, then,” Yuri finally says, and laughs smugly at Viktor’s horrified face all the way to lunch.

* * *

  _Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?_

* * *

Sleeping on the first night in a new place is always hard. 

Sleeping… on the first night… in a new place… is always hard.

_Sleeping on the first night in a new place is always hard._

Ugh.

One Makkachin, two Makkachins, three Makkachins, four Makkachins, _insomnia fucking sucks,_ six Makkachins, seven Makkachins, _yes brain I’m going to die alone I understand this already can please we think about something else,_ nine Makkachins _,_ ten…

This isn’t working.

“I’m glad _someone_ is getting rest around here,” Viktor mutters, looking at the curly lump next to him.  Makkachin snores softly and continues snoozing away, content in her doggy dreams, and he sighs fondly, stares at the ceiling, sighs again (dejectedly this time), and resigns himself to wakefulness.

One thing he’s going to have to get used to, living here now instead of in his apartment, is how incredibly quiet it is.  The mansion has its own gardens and grounds, and it’s not downtown like his apartment was, so the distinct lack of road noise, the occasional drunken neighbor, or sirens going past is… different.

It’s peaceful.  He thinks he likes it.  Slow, quiet, peaceful, and gentle—that seems like a nice life.  Makkachin likes this place for sure, he knows; she had a lark of a time romping around the gardens earlier.  It was quite the sight to behold, and he knows the videos he got of her chasing squirrels will keep him amused for weeks.

Great, now he just wants to play on his phone.  Is sleep really just not going to come tonight?

 _Ugh._ It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a night like this.  Fine.  So be it.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Viktor sighs (again), then pushes himself to his feet.  The floorboards creak, and Makkachin snuffles but doesn’t move as he takes his phone from the nightstand and trudges to the door.  Maybe he’ll make some tea.  Chamomile sometimes helps him sleep.

Damn, if only he could remember which box he packed his melatonin supplements in.  It probably would’ve been smart to label all of these, instead of just throwing everything in and figuring he’d deal with it later.  The Viktor who has to deal with it now is not pleased with the Viktor of the past.

Oh well.  There’s nothing for it now, unless he feels like digging through all the junk waiting to be unpacked in his kitchen.  He only bothered with the essentials there.  Did he even unpack his tea?  God, he better have.

He meanders down the hallways to the kitchen, not bothering to turn the lights on and just using the flashlight from his phone instead.  From the residential wing, he has to cross through the entryway again to get to the kitchen where his things are (although there’s a smaller secondary kitchen upstairs, which he will definitely move a kettle and some tea and coffee to, soon), and he pauses.  Moonlight streams in from the huge, decoratively-paneled windows above the door, painting the entire foyer a solemn silvery-blue, a stark contrast to its warm gold from earlier. 

It's funny, he muses.  How things can change so drastically with just a little time.

Eventually, Viktor makes his way into the kitchen, shuffling through the doorway in his fluffy robe and matching slippers and flicking the lights on with a clumsy hand.  One of these days, he’ll get used to the switch being on the left side of the entryway, but until then, he just has to search for it, he supposes.

Soon enough, he’s made his tea.  Its charming honey-golden color soothes him, but the kitchen itself is still too stark to be cozy, full of boxes that need unpacking and too much vacant space.  In the silence, it’s far too empty for him to want to sit here and drink his tea; instead, he takes his mug and flicks off the lights again, and by the light of his phone, shuffles back into the hall.

Maybe he’ll take the long way back to his bedroom, going past the sitting room and the empty ballroom and up through the other end of the residential wing.  That way he can walk, drink his tea, and hopefully be both calm and sleepy by the time he gets back to bed and Makkachin.

Mind made up, Viktor sets off at a sedate pace, ambling down the hall to his left instead of turning right to go back the way he came. 

Perhaps it should be scary, wandering around a barely-familiar mansion in the depths of night, in the dark, when rumors of hauntings and whispers of the fae swirl about.  But for some reason, he’s not frightened at all.  It’s just _fascinating._   This is something new, something different, and therefore something exciting.  He supposes the novelty of the house will wear off sooner or later, but in the meantime, the tall ceilings and ivy-covered walls combine to make him feel like he’s stepped into a fairy tale. 

He intends to enjoy every second of it.

So he wanders, humming to himself as he shines his flashlight at the walls and floor, noting the fading patterns on the carpet and the swirling designs of the wallpaper.  If he were so inclined, he could find some paintings or things to hang up in these halls.  They could use some ornamentation.  Maybe he’ll get some vases and put flowers from the gardens themselves in here!  (Although the gardens really do need some work…)

But it’s not until he approaches the ballroom that things get … interesting.

Soft strains of [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bs2VL_HYG9Y) drift through the night, so faint that he has to stop walking to make sure he’s not hallucinating.  But no—they’re there, and they’re not fading away.  It’s something melodic and soft, a barely-audible piano melody lilting through the night, and it’s coming from the ballroom.

Viktor’s eyes narrow, his thoughts automatically sliding to intruders.  Though… that doesn’t make much sense.  Would someone break into his house just to play a piano that surely has to be incredibly out of tune?  And would he be in danger if he got caught confronting that person?

… Or is it magic?

Weighing curiosity versus common sense, he wastes no time throwing common sense out the nearest window and tiptoes toward the ballroom, keeping his phone’s light dim and trained on his feet so he doesn’t trip.  The ballroom doors aren’t locked, and the music grows more substantial as he approaches.

When he places his phone into the pocket of his robe, opens the door, and sticks his head in, he’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it isn’t this:

A wisp of moonlight, twirling around the room.

An ethereal melody given human form.

A ghostly dancer, moving like nothing he’s ever seen before.

And yet this is what greets him, these descriptions and a thousand more all neatly rolled into one figure, whirling and stepping on featherlight feet that carry him all around the room to the tune of an unseen orchestra.  He’s paler than silver and translucent enough that Viktor can see the opposite wall of the ballroom through him as he moves, not that Viktor is particularly paying attention to that, because—

The way he moves is _enchanting._

That thought snaps him out of his stupor, and he breathes in a sharp gasp.  This is one of the fae.  There is a faerie in his ballroom.  He is living in a house that has been touched by the fae.

His gasp is louder than he thought, or perhaps the faerie has better hearing than it should.  (Than he should?)  Either way, the dancer stops abruptly, and with him the music comes to a crashingly silent halt.

Their eyes meet.

A flash of terror crosses the dancer’s face (why?), and before Viktor can even blink, he leaps into a column of moonlight and—

And…

He’s gone.

“Wait!” Viktor cries, against his better judgment.  “Who—I mean, come back, you don’t have to go just because of me!”

There is no response.  The ballroom is utterly still, absolutely silent.  The air tastes like bitter disappointment.  Viktor swallows it along with the last of his tea, lets his shoulders slump, and resigns himself to going back to bed.

That night, he dreams of waltzing with the moon.

* * *

_Con una spada vorrei tagliare quelle gole che cantano d'amore…_

* * *

“Hey, old man!”

The shout, unfortunately, does get Viktor’s attention.  He immediately has a minor crisis about the fact that he just responded to the moniker _old man,_ reconciles it because it was just coming from Yuri and therefore doesn’t count, and sighs.  “Yes?”

“You answered to old man,” Mila snickers.  Viktor ignores her, as any mature adult (as opposed to a crotchety old man) would do, instead skating backward to drift slowly over to Yuri.

“You keep zoning out today,” Yuri huffs, prodding his arm.  “The fuck is wrong with you?  Are you not taking competing seriously anymore?  Don’t get so cocky!  I’m making my senior debut next season and you’re going to eat my fucking dust if you think you can win just because you’re Viktor Nikiforov—”

“Yuri,” Georgi cuts in.  “Just get to the point and ask if he’s alright, will you?  We all can see you care, and it’s very touching, honestly, the amount of worry you put yourself through for the sake of—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up before I skate over your _corpse_ instead of the ice, you overemotional damn trash fire—”

_“CHILDREN!”_

Yakov’s thundering voice cuts across the tirade no doubt about to spill from Yuri’s mouth and effectively shuts everyone up.  As usual, he sounds irritable and weary of their antics; as usual, Viktor perks up and skates over to the rinkside wall.

“What is all this yelling about!  All of you!  Why aren’t you doing the drills I assigned?”

Viktor ignores that and skates right up to him, excited.  “Yakov!  You aren’t going to believe this, but I think my house might actually be haunted!”

Yakov levels a stern look at him, from under those thinned-out brows.  When he was younger, they were thick enough that Viktor always liked to imagine them like caterpillars sitting on his face.  “Haunted,” he repeats skeptically.  “Are you hearing things at night?  Check for burglars, before you get yourself hurt, idiot boy.”

Viktor shakes his head.  “No, not like that,” he says.  Yuri, Mila, and Georgi are all inching a little closer, curious now, and he knows sound carries well in the rink, so there’s no point in keeping his voice hushed, but for some reason, he drops it anyway.  “I … I think I saw a faerie last night.”

The color drains from Yakov’s face, and someone behind Viktor (probably Georgi) gasps.

Gloved hands settle on Viktor’s shoulders and squeeze hard.  “Are you sure?” Yakov demands, shaking him slightly.  “Are you sure that’s what you saw?  Vitya, if you’re living in a house that the fae have taken an interest in—oh, what the hell possessed you to move there to begin with?  You should have just stayed in the city!”

“I like it out there,” Viktor says stubbornly, “and I’m not _sure_ if it was one of the fae, but I think it was.  But Yakov, stop fussing!  Anyway, you’re missing the point!  He was dancing in the ballroom last night, and it was so beautiful.  I’ve never seen anything like it, someone moving so fluidly like he just _was_ the music, not dancing _to_ it, if that makes sense?  I wish you could see it!  I wanted to tell you last night itself!  It was something incredible, something inspiring, and—”

“Heavens above,” Yakov breathes, and Viktor is so startled by the actual alarm in his face that he stops talking abruptly.  “Foolish boy!  They’re trying to bewitch you, aren’t they?  And you’re falling for it, hook, line, and sinker!”

“What?”  Viktor shakes his head, laughing it off.  “No—no, don’t be ridiculous, you know I wouldn’t do anything stupid like get myself kidnapped off to Faerie.  I just happened to catch a glimpse of one of them, and I thought maybe I could use some elements of inspiration from that in my programs for next season?  I wanted to talk that over with you, not get a lecture…”

His pout apparently does very little to convince Yakov, not that this surprises him.  It’s been unerringly ineffective ever since he got taller than his coach.  At least Makkachin’s still got her charms, though she’s at home.

And that’s another thing!

“Besides!” he protests.  “Do you really think I’d ever go with the fae and leave Makkachin behind?”

Behind him, Yuri lets out a bark of laughter that he hastily tries to cover up into a cough.  Viktor can practically hear him saying something about how _of course you’re so pathetic that the only thing you would stay for is your stupid dog._  

If only he knew how true that is.

Yakov doesn’t know, either.  Viktor hasn’t really told him about how dull life has felt lately, about how the colors just fade away and everything feels lackluster and empty and _boring._ He’s tired of living like this, like each day doesn’t matter and everything is just the _same._ One of these days he’s going to get too old and too stiff to skate winning programs anymore.  He knows that day is coming, knows it’s coming _soon_ and that he can do nothing to delay it…

…and yet he almost doesn’t care.

It’s a little frightening, how convinced he is that after he stops being able to skate, after darling Makkachin passes on (and oh, he knows she’s getting up in the years, and that utterly terrifies him so he tries not to think about it), he—he just won’t have much of a purpose anymore.  No more life goals, no more reason to exist.  He’ll sink further into this molasses of apathy, and then…

And then…

He doesn’t know what then.

All of this, however, has nothing to do with how Yakov is staring at him like he’s gone off the deep end, combined with the no-longer-caterpillar-like brows tilting down at worrisome angles.  “You.  You think you’re so special you can just walk away from the fae if they set their sights on you?”

Viktor internally winces.  _You think you’re so special when you’re not?_ That hurts.

“I didn’t say that,” he protests, placing his hand over Yakov’s, still on his shoulder.  “I meant… I think I saw a faerie dancing and it made me excited for my own skating again, because it was beautiful, nothing else.  Can’t you just be happy for me about that much?”

Yakov opens his mouth to yell, probably, but his voice doesn’t come out, and he closes it again, flabbergasted.  Viktor waits.

Yakov looks away, then, focusing his sharp glare on the other skaters, who are all attempting to look as inconspicuous as they can while eavesdropping right behind Viktor’s back (which is to say, not very inconspicuous at all).  “All of you!” he roars.  “What do you think you’re doing just standing around?!  Do you need something to do?  Laps, all of you, five of them!  You’ll be doing suicides next if you keep lazing around!”

Ah, Yakov and his ways of showing sentimentality.  Viktor can’t help but smile to himself.  This is how he lets the two of them talk alone: yelling at everyone else to go be useful.  _Never change, Yakov, never change._

“Listen to me, Vitya,” he says, dropping back to a normal speaking voice.  There’s an intense look in his eyes, though whether it’s concern or reprimand, Viktor would be hard-pressed to say.  “You don’t know the fae.  You want to keep it that way.  They are beautiful, and I am happy for you that you feel inspired.  But I want you to be careful, do you understand me?  The fae are harsh and cruel and they do not _care._ You try to meddle in their affairs, and they _will_ hurt you.  They might even take you away, Makkachin or no Makkachin.  So watch yourself.”

“They wouldn’t, really,” Viktor protests, blustering.  He didn’t come here to get a lecture about being careful, he told Yakov about it because it’s _exciting,_ and maybe he should be scared but he’s not?  He just wants to explore things, wants to see a little more to life than he’s been seeing lately, and suddenly having this ridiculous old house with its secrets and mysteries…

It’s giving his life a sense of thrill that’s been sorely lacking lately.  He’s missed it.

Yakov’s formerly bushy brows lower darkly.  “You think that,” he glowers, “but you’re a prime candidate for being spirited off to Faerie, boy.  They always want the dreamers and the depressed.  You’re both.”

Viktor stares.  The way he talks…

“…Did they take someone you knew?”

Yakov looks away.

“Get back to practice, Vitya,” he says gruffly. “And don’t let me catch you getting distracted again.”

* * *

_Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione…_

* * *

The dancer does not appear that night.

Nor the next, nor the one after that, or for the rest of the week for that matter, until Viktor starts to wonder if he just dreamt the entire encounter.  There probably aren’t really fae in his house, he tells himself to assuage the disenchantment.  He was just too excited by the move, that’s all.

And yet he keeps wandering down to the ballroom in the middle of the night, every time he finds himself awake.  His feet carry him there, eternally in search of the haunting melody from that first night, wondering and hoping against hope.  Makkachin seems confused by this behavior.  Sometimes she follows him, while other nights she just takes up the entire bed while waiting for him to return; either way, he doesn’t see the dancer again.

Disappointment tastes more bitter than he realized.

He knows Yakov notices, because Yakov pulls him aside and demands to know if he’s seen the fae again, finger jabbing into Viktor’s chest like an accusatory spear.  When Viktor says no, and that that’s why he’s disillusioned now, his coach nearly explodes, he’s sure of it.

“He looked scared of me, Yakov,” Viktor persists, tapping a finger to his lips in thought.  “I don’t understand.  He was so beautiful, and he saw me, and he looked terrified.”

“Don’t question the fae.  How many times do I have to tell you to drop this?”  Yakov shakes his head.  “Don’t go looking for trouble, Vitya.  You won’t know what to do when it finds you.”

Maybe Yakov is right.  Maybe he should just give up.

He might, but…

It’s late, and he’s still awake for some godforsaken reason, and there is music drifting down the hallway.

Viktor almost trips over his own feet in his haste—he grabs his phone and sprints down the grand staircase, skidding around the corner, and freezes just outside the ballroom.  The music is louder here, clearer too, and he can feel excitement bubbling in his blood.  This time… this has to be real.  He’ll get it on film this time, too.

Phone camera at the ready, Viktor carefully opens the door, pushing it painstakingly slowly so it doesn’t creak.  Here it comes—anticipation builds as he sticks his head through, looking for the wisp of moonlight whirling around the room.  Where is his dancer?

_There!_

The dancer is back, after all, leaping and twirling with effortless grace.  He hardly seems to touch the ground between beautiful twirls and spins, his movements so fluid he barely seems… well… human.

Viktor watches, enthralled, for several seconds before he remembers what he came in here to do and raises his camera.  He gets about twenty seconds worth of video before it informs him that his storage is full, and he realizes that he forgot to move all the latest pictures of Makkachin to his laptop.  _Damn._

Still, twenty seconds of footage is enough to show Yakov and let him see what Viktor means by this beauty, this ethereal elegance, this otherworldly charm.  He’s utterly enraptured.  It makes him want to dance, too.

Viktor puts his phone back into the pocket of his robe and creeps forward a little, keeping himself hidden in the shadows with his heart in his throat.  The dancer seems unaware of his presence so far, completely lost in the swirls and crashes of the music, rising and falling like eddies in the tide.  Viktor is enchanted just watching him.  He could just sit here for a hundred years. 

Why does he dance alone?  This is the kind of dancing Viktor always pictured as a child, when everyone would tell hushed stories of the fae and their courts, cold and elegant and pristine as horror.  Surely this belongs in one of those high halls, not the abandoned ballroom of Viktor’s dead great-uncle’s mansion.

The song draws to a close, and the ghostly dancer shimmers to a halt, his chest heaving with exertion.  That’s interesting.  Can ghosts breathe?  Do they need to?  That’s not a question Viktor ever found himself pondering before, but now he’s curious.  Do the fae have ghosts?  Do the fae breathe normally, too?

He creeps a little closer, wanting to see the dancer’s face again, hopefully this time for more than just an instant of sudden terror, but the house betrays him.  The floorboard under his foot creaks, loudly.

_Shit._

The dancer freezes, whirls, and gasps.

“Wait!” Viktor cries, before he can run away again.  “Please—don’t go, not yet.  I—I don’t want to hurt you!”

Stupid, stupid, stupid, of _course_ he’s not going to hurt a _faerie!_ The fae would be the ones to hurt _him,_ if anyone is hurting anyone around here!  He could kick himself for saying something so useless.  But why was the faerie scared the first time?

“You… are the new owner of this place?”

The faerie is still standing frozen in the center of the ballroom, but he looks more apprehensive this time, not terrified.  Viktor wants to close the distance a little more, but common sense (which sounds a little like Yakov) tells him he should stay back.  He likes the sound of the faerie’s voice, though.  It’s a quiet tenor.  Lovely.

“Yes,” he says.  “My name is—”

“Stop!” the faerie cries frantically, waving his hands.  “You should be more careful!  Names are powerful things.”

Viktor blinks.  Then he realizes what he’d been automatically doing, introducing himself, and smacks his forehead.  The first rule of talking to the fae: _don’t tell them your name._

“You’re right,” he apologies.  “I appreciate the warning.  But… why did you stop me?”

Normally, the fae would delightedly seize the opportunity to mess with a hapless mortal like himself.  Or at least, that’s what the stories everyone tells say.  Everyone has a cousin’s friend’s wife’s brother’s neighbor who ran afoul of the fae.  Everyone knows nothing good comes of interacting with them.  So why is this one trying to be helpful to him?  Is that a trap, too?  To make him indebted?

“I once made the mistake of introducing myself to a beautiful stranger,” the faerie says softly.  His face twists into a beautiful, bitter smile.  “Now you can see what has become of me.”

Viktor blinks again, looks him up and down, from his smooth hair to his fluttering, fantastical garments and his bare feet, then shakes his head.  He doesn’t understand.  “What… am I supposed to be seeing?”

The faerie laughs scornfully.  “I’m not a faerie.  I’m human.  I think.”

Viktor’s world tilts.  “You’re transparent,” he says stupidly, and the faerie—the not-faerie?—laughs again, shaking his head.

“I’ve noticed,” he says.  “It’s a curse.  You should be more careful.”

He turns away, as if he’s about to leave, and Viktor throws all caution to the wind.  If he’s not a faerie, then he won’t spirit Viktor away, and now he’s so horribly curious!  “Wait!  Where are you going?”

“Away.”  Translucent shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.  “I don’t know.  Why do you care?”

“Don’t go,” Viktor says desperately.  “Can I see you again?”

The not-faerie hesitates.  “I … you don’t want me to leave?”

“No,” Viktor breathes.  “Not at all.  You’re _beautiful_.”

A flush of color rises to the not-faerie’s cheeks, making them almost lavender in the silvery moonlight.  “I…”

“Forgive me.”  Viktor clears his throat and straightens a little, suddenly self-conscious in a way he hasn’t really felt in front of someone else in a long time.  “That was forward.  My apologies.”

“You keep using words that would get you in trouble,” the not-faerie sighs.  “Apologies.  Forgiveness.  Names.  You worry me.  For your sake, I hope you never deal with the fae.”

Momentary indignation is swallowed by curiosity, and Viktor can’t help but step forward slightly and ask, “If you’re not one of them, what are you?  What do you mean, that you _think_ you’re human?”

The not-faerie bites his lip.  “I… I don’t know.”

That isn’t much of an answer.  “Alright, then why do you come dance in the ballroom here?  Someone who dances like you do, I would’ve thought you’d be in those fae courts or something!”

He means it as a compliment, but something dark and venomous and sharp flashes deep in the not-faerie’s eyes.

_“Never!”_

The word comes out as a hiss vehement enough that both of them look startled, and the not-faerie takes a step back.  Viktor steps forward in response, not wanting to let his mystery muse slip between his fingers again.

“Sorry!” he yelps.  “I don’t know why that’s bad, but I didn’t mean for it to be!”

The not-faerie hesitates, hovering skittishly and shifting from foot to foot.  “…Nobody has wanted to know why I’m here for over five years,” he finally says, voice low and soft.  “There was an old man who saw me, when I first came here.  He called me a fae demon and ran.  Why do you stay?”

Maybe he ought to have a real reason, beyond curiosity or mere interest.  Maybe the not-faerie is looking for a profound, deep answer.  However, it is about one in the morning, and what comes out of Viktor’s mouth is just, “I don’t think I have a sense of self-preservation.”

A snort.  “I can tell.”

Viktor quirks a smile at him, then sighs.  “To be honest?  I’m not sure either.  But you don’t seem so bad.  Why have you been on my family’s land for five years?  Don’t you have a home?”

The not-faerie shrugs again, shimmering in the moonlight.  “This is where Faerie left me.  I think… I think I’ve faded too much to go anywhere else.  But if you want me gone, I understand.  I can… I can go.  I think.  I’m… I’m bound to the mansion, but I… I can stay out of your way.”

“I don’t want that,” Viktor repeats.  “I don’t mind the company.  It’s just me and Makkachin, anyway, and this is a big house.  Do you want to stay?”

“Staying here is all I know,” the not-faerie says hesitantly.  “I… I don’t know where else I would go.  You leave me in your debt.  Shall I dance for you?  It isn’t much, I know, but it is all I can offer—”

His voice has slipped into something formal, something frightened, the soft laugh of a moment ago utterly vanished into the night air.  Viktor hates it.  What happened to this man?

“Stop, stop!  You don’t owe me anything!” he jumps in.  “Please, consider it a gift if you _have_ to think of it in fae terms.  You don’t owe me.  If you want to dance, I would love to watch, but you don’t _have_ to do that just to stay here.”  His nose wrinkles in disgust at the thought.  He’s not going to make this poor not-faerie man pay rent with his own body!

Er… is it a body if it’s translucent and mostly looks like a whisper of moonlight?

Ah, whatever.  That’s not the point.

The point is, the not-faerie is staring at him like he’s grown a second head, and continues doing so long enough that Viktor finds himself rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

“…You offer this place to me freely,” he finally says, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.  “Why?”

“Because,” Viktor says, and then stops.  “Because… maybe this mansion gets too quiet at night, and it’s more space than I could ever need on my own, anyway.”

“Oh,” the not-faerie says softly.  “I… I will stay out of your way.  Thank you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Viktor says quickly.  “Please.  You’re not burdening me simply by existing here.  There’s—I didn’t expect to have any shared spaces, but I’m not _complaining,_ really—would you mind?  If I could watch you dance sometimes?  It’s absolutely beautiful.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  I could show you some of—I skate, ah, I’m a figure skater, so I could show you some of the programs I’ve skated in the past, if you want to see them?”

The not-faerie hesitates for a long moment again.  His eyes are dark and unreadable for several heartbeats, and he bites his lip again, too, clearly deep in thought.  Finally, he steps forward, light on his feet as always.  “You… want to be friends?”

Well, that’s not exactly what he had in mind, but now that he thinks about it, spending time with this elusive dancer who is and yet isn’t one of the fae sounds delightful.  Maybe there’s something to the magic and allure of this house, something that can lend him motivation and drive to find himself.  Maybe this man can help him find that.

“Yes!” Viktor exclaims, offering a smile.  “Yes, I’d love that.  Can we be friends?”

“We could try,” the not-faerie says doubtfully, “though I don’t know why you’d want to be friends with me.  I don’t know much of anything.”

“That’s alright,” Viktor says.  He holds out his hand.  “I think that might be one thing we have in common.”

The not-faerie smiles sadly again.  “This won’t work,” he says, voice soft, and reaches for Viktor’s hand to shake it.  But his fingers pass right through, feeling like nothing but the faintest warmth, and Viktor blinks.

“Oh.”

“Knowing me is probably a mistake,” the not-faerie says.  “The fae wanted me to suffer.”

“Why?” Viktor asks, mirroring the softness of his voice.

The not-faerie shakes his head.  “I don’t remember.”

“…Oh,” Viktor says again.  He feels like he’s been saying that a lot.  “Okay.  Well.  You don’t have to give me your name if you don’t want to, but if we’re going to be living together, can I have _something_ to call you?  I’m—”

He hesitates.  Yakov will kill him, if he says what he’s about to say and it ends badly.  But the not-faerie in front of him feels trustworthy, feels like someone who just needs help, feels genuine and honest and good, and Viktor trusts his instincts.

“I’m Viktor,” he says, and offers a smile.

The not-faerie stares at him, wide-eyed.  “I… y-you… you’re trusting me with your name, even… even when …”

“It’s alright,” Viktor soothes, not entirely sure what’s wrong but hoping to assuage it.  His heart is pounding.  What is the not-faerie in front of him going to do, now that he knows his name?

The not-faerie takes a deep breath.  “I haven’t told anyone in years,” he says, voice soft in a completely new way, “but… my name is Yuuri.”

* * *

_Questa storia che senso non ha…_

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, Viktor finds out several things about his odd housemate.  Yuuri doesn’t know his last name, where he comes from, or who he was before he danced for the fae; he absolutely adores Makkachin (which earns him many, many points in Viktor’s book); he has a galaxy’s worth of stars in his eyes when Viktor shows him skate videos on his laptop, and he has the most beautiful laughter in the world.

He starts appearing in the ballroom nightly, instead of skittishly hiding away like he did at first, and Viktor stops dreading the advent of lonesome evenings.  They aren’t lonesome anymore.  Yuuri makes music when he dances, and his dancing is just as enthralling as ever, but there’s a difference these days, now that he knows Viktor is watching him.

“Are you self-conscious?” Viktor asks one day, sitting on the floor on the side of the ballroom, Makkachin draped across his lap.  “I can leave, you know.  If you prefer to dance alone.”

“I, ah… no, it’s not that,” Yuuri says, his arms falling elegantly to his sides.  Every little movement he makes is graceful, ethereal, and lyrical enough that tears almost spring to Viktor’s eyes.  “I’m just… I’m not used to dancing for someone else and not hating it.”

 _That’s_ a new tidbit of information, and Viktor sits up, disturbing Makkachin, who lets out a soft _whuff_ of reproach as she shifts on his (entirely numb) thighs.  “What do you mean?”

Yuuri shrugs.  “I… I don’t know.”

He says that irritatingly often.  Viktor would be frustrated, but he knows that a mind full of missing memories has to be a thousand times more awful to Yuuri, who is, after all, cursed, so he keeps quiet and tries to keep his curiosity in check.  It’s not _fair._ Yuuri is kind and funny and lovely.  What did he do to deserve a curse from the fae?

“That’s alright.  You don’t have to try to remember if it’s not there.”  Viktor settles back against the wall and picks up the notes Yakov left him from today’s practice, thinking about his routines again.  Stammi Vicino, in particular, is one that leaves him emotionally raw, but it still feels a little _off._   What should he fix…? 

Both the silence and the lack of movement eventually draw his attention again, and he looks up from his phone and his little notebook to find Yuuri still standing perfectly still, frowning at the floor.

“Yuuri…?”

“I…”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“I think I might remember something, actually,” he says slowly.  “I don’t know how I forgot it.  I don’t… I… _Viktor,”_ and he breaks off helplessly, looking up now, and to Viktor’s horror, there are silvery-crystalline tears welling up in his midnight eyes.  “Viktor, I have—I had?—I had a _sister._ I had a sister and I forgot her face and her name and everything until today!  Her name—her name was Mari and she used to sing to me when I was a baby, and I _forgot!”_

Viktor’s hand stills in Makkachin’s fur.  He puts his notebook down. 

“You… remembered something new?”

“Her name was _Mari,_ ” Yuuri repeats helplessly, and falls to his knees, sobbing.  When Viktor prods Makkachin aside and goes to him, trying to offer comfort, his hand passes right through Yuuri’s shoulder, and all he can do is sit there and watch his friend cry.

Yuuri’s memory seems to return in fits and starts, little bits and pieces that come together over time.  He talks about friends, nameless friends with fuzzy faces who held his hands or laughed at him.  He mentions a dance teacher whose name he can’t recall either, but who was simultaneously the strictest and the kindest person he knew.  He tells Viktor about the way she would guide him through steps, with firm but gentle touches and jokes when he needed to laugh.  He tells Viktor about going home to somewhere familiar, somewhere he can’t describe past the splash of water and the scent of steam.

It makes him cry, more often than not, and as he crouches next to Yuuri and murmurs useless _it’s okay_ s and _I’m here_ s, Viktor experiences for the first time what he thinks Yakov might feel for the fae: helpless, hot anger, like a furious and fiery rage that’s confined to a candle and can’t _burn_.  Yuuri doesn’t deserve to suffer like this.  Yuuri at least deserves to know who he is.  Why did they do this to him?  What did he do to deserve this?

It’s early evening, they’re seated in the ballroom again, and the sky is still streaked with pink instead of the deep hues of midnight, one day, when Viktor finally poses a question he’s been wondering for a while.  “Why do you always speak of your family and friends in the past tense?”

Yuuri pauses.

“I… I’ve been here for a long time,” he finally answers, soft and hesitant.  “I don’t think… I mean, it’s been years, and I don’t know how long the fae had me.  My family might not even be alive anymore.  It’s stupid to think I’ll ever see them again.”  He laughs, but it’s not the joyous, happy laugh Viktor likes.  This laugh is bitter and sharp and so, so sad.  “Besides, it’s been so long.  Even if they are still around, they’ve had a long time to get used to life without me.  I doubt they’d remember me anyway.”

Viktor thinks, with a pang, of the real and present anguish in Yakov’s face a month or two ago, when he first mentioned the possibility of fae in this mansion.  That pain wasn’t new, but it was still an ache, dull and harsh as winter.  He thinks, also, of his mother, and of the grave in the Russian countryside, and presses his lips together with a soft sigh.

“That’s not how people who love you work, Yuuri.  If they loved you, they would never forget you.”

Yuuri is silent for a long, long moment.  One heartbeat stretches out into two, three, four, and then ten, until Viktor gives up on waiting for a response and goes back to his phone, scrolling Instagram and absently liking all of Chris’s latest pictures.  When he finally looks up, Yuuri has turned away.  He begins to dance, something slow and somber and sorrowful, and every lithe line of his body is a lament.

* * *

_Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità…_

* * *

The first time Yuuri appears in the kitchen instead of the ballroom, Viktor is so startled that he fumbles and nearly drops his mug, spilling his tea all over the floor in the process.  It splashes everywhere, still steaming, and he yelps a loud curse before he catches himself; Yuuri looks horribly guilty and apologizes for scaring him at least twelve times, so upset that Viktor almost feels bad for being startled in the first place.

But then time passes and Viktor becomes accustomed to seeing Yuuri in the kitchens or the gardens or sitting rooms, sometimes in the early mornings before he leaves for practice and sometimes right as he gets back in the afternoons or evenings.  He starts getting used to walking in the door and calling, “I’m home!” to be greeted by more than just Makkachin’s enthusiastic welcomes.  He starts realizing that as odd as this situation is, and as skeptical as Yakov was when he explained it to him, he likes getting used to living with Yuuri.

And that’s nice, its really is, but it has the unfortunate side effect of Yuuri _laughing_ at him when he does stupid things like accidentally spoon salt into his coffee rather than sugar.

“It’s not that funny,” he complains, staring balefully into the depths of his mug.  “It’s upsetting.”

It’s half past five in the morning and he has to drive into the city to get to the rink soon, he’s tired because he couldn’t sleep until too late _again_ last night, and there is _salt_ in his _coffee._

He’s just going to accept death.

“It’s a little funny,” Yuuri says, nose crinkled in amusement.  If he wasn’t intangible, Viktor would throw something at him.  A spoon, or maybe a pillow.  Something harmless to get his point across.  “Can’t you just make a new cup?”

“I’d have to let it cool again.  I’ll be late.”  Viktor lets out a contender for the world’s most mournful sigh, looks down into the mug, and swallows hard to prepare himself.  He knows what he has to do.

He steels himself, raises the mug, and takes a huge gulp, swallowing as fast as he can while Yuuri lets out a horrified shriek.  Oh, god, it’s so salty and disgusting, it’s like bitter seawater, he’s never tasted anything this awful before—

“Viktor!”

Yuuri is sitting on the countertop with his face in his hands, laughing, and Viktor swallows the second mouthful with a grimace and a shudder before he sets the accursed mug down and stares bleakly.  Is it just his imagination, or are the countertop’s tiles not actually visible through Yuuri’s body anymore?  No, he must just be tired.  It’s a trick of the light (and the salt).

“What.”

“I can’t believe you _drank it,_ ” Yuuri cries, and collapses into a heap of giggles all over again.  Viktor just rolls his eyes.

A few nights later he finds himself snuggled up in an armchair in one of the sitting rooms again, a heavy blanket across his lap to ward off the drafty winter’s chill and a mug of hot cocoa (sweet, not salty) in his hands, Makkachin curled up by his feet.  It’s late, but he has tomorrow off for once. 

The house is big, empty, and lonely.  Not for the first time, Viktor just really, really wants to be held.

Yuuri is with him, perched on the armrest of the sofa next to him, watching the movie Viktor has put on his laptop for the two of them.  Watching him, Viktor finds himself a little more at peace, a little less lonesome, and a little more able to breathe.  There’s something soft and pensive in Yuuri’s face, too, and maybe it’s just the dim light again, but he _swears_ Yuuri looks more solid than before.

It all comes to a head when the main character kisses her love interest, standing in a cliché orchard in the rain, surrounded by flowers.  The two of them embrace on the screen and laugh, clinging to each other, and Yuuri…

Yuuri sniffles, ever so slightly.

Viktor looks up, alarmed, and sees that those midnight eyes are starry-bright again, warmer than the silver of moonlight, almost like they’re real and tangible, like Viktor could reach out and caress the tears away as they start to fall.  The thought startles him, and he hesitates.

“…Yuuri?”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says immediately, ducking his head, just like he always does when he’s upset and Viktor asks what’s wrong.  “Y-you’re sad too.  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  Viktor shakes his head dismissively.

Yuuri bites his lip.  “You’re not, though.  You’re quieter than usual, and you’ve been smiling the way you do in the interviews you showed me.  Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Viktor, who _didn’t_ think Yuuri noticed that at all, is a little bit flabbergasted, sitting in a stunned silence for several seconds.  “I… you… okay, fine.  I’m sad.  What about you?”

Yuuri looks at the screen for a long moment again, then tucks his knees to his chest and sighs, bowing his head.

“It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care,” Viktor retorts. 

Yuuri shrinks in on himself a little more.  “I was just looking at that… and thinking… because, you know, it’s—it’s… been years since anyone held _me._ ”

Overcome by another sudden punch of emotion— _I would hold you, I want to hold you, you’re my friend and if I could touch you and never stop I would_ —Viktor stares for another second or two.  He isn’t sure what actually motivates him to move, in the end; all he knows is that Yuuri is sad, but Yuuri also looks more solid these days, and he’s had enough of just _accepting_ that he’s sad and Yuuri is sad too, so he puts his hot cocoa down, gets up, moves to the couch, and stops caring that it won’t work.  He just reaches out and wraps an arm around Yuuri’s waist.

And Yuuri is warm and solid to his touch.

Both of them freeze.

“V-Viktor?” Yuuri whispers, his eyes growing wide, the movie absolutely forgotten.  “You’re… you… I can…”

“Don’t go,” Viktor murmurs back, pulling him closer.  He wraps the blanket around both of them, then, and Yuuri lets out a soft, shuddering breath, as if he’s about to cry but isn’t quite there yet.  Viktor squeezes his eyes shut and just holds him.  After a moment, Yuuri’s arms wrap around him, too, both of them, and they’re slow and confused and tentative, but they’re _real._

“I don’t understand,” Yuuri breathes, hesitant and hopeful and full of a soft, fragile trust.  “All this time and I couldn’t touch you, but—but now—”

“I don’t understand either,” Viktor answers, “but I’m happy with this.  Are you?”

“Yes,” Yuuri laughs breathlessly, his voice breaking.  His fingers slowly curl into the back of Viktor’s shirt, faltering and desperate, as if he can’t quite believe this is happening.  Viktor holds him a little tighter.  “Oh, god, yes.”

“Good,” Viktor murmurs.  “Then stay.”

Movie forgotten, they cling to each other for seconds that turn into minutes that could easily become eternities, until Yuuri lets out a slow, deep sigh.

“I remembered something else,” he says softly.

Viktor has to resist the sudden urge to turn his head just enough to press a kiss to Yuuri’s temple. “Do you want to tell me what it is?”

“I remembered—I remembered the curse the fae put on me,” Yuuri admits, and his voice is smaller than it’s ever been.  “I…”

“Go on,” Viktor urges, when it becomes clear that Yuuri is waiting for some kind of prodding.  He holds him a little tighter, too, hoping that perhaps, to Yuuri, his arms might feel safe, and Yuuri takes a deep breath.  “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

“I told you that I once gave my name to a beautiful stranger,” he mumbles.  “That stranger thought I was a beautiful dancer.  The fae took me away and they wanted me to dance for them, in their courts.  I did, for four years.  I—I think it was four years, anyway, my memory is still patchy, I’m sorry—but, the curse, um.  I, I tried to run away and go home. 

“They caught me, though, and they were furious.  So they kicked me out of Faerie and dumped me here around seven years ago, and the curse… I used to know this.  I forgot.  That’s my curse.  I was—I am bound to the area around this mansion, and, um.  As—as people lost hope in me, stopped thinking of me, stopped—stopped loving me, I guess, I would fade.  My memories went first.  Then my body.  I think… I think I was just hanging on by a thread until you found me.”

Viktor is silent for a long moment, Yuuri trembling in his arms as he turns this over in his head.  Yuuri’s isolation was his undoing, and a curse that would make him forget how to save himself ensured his suffering.  Viktor, then, might have saved him, simply by being curious and then slowly growing to love him, this beautiful man who makes him laugh who lies cradled against his chest.

But that’s not the part that’s sticking out the most, right now.

“You… were a child,” Viktor breathes, horribly angry and awfully helpless.  “You danced for them for four years and you’ve been here for seven years—Yuuri.  You were a _child,_ and they did this to you.”

Yuuri tucks his face into Viktor’s neck and says nothing.

“You’re not going to be alone anymore.”  Viktor keeps his voice low, comforting, and calm, as calm as he can manage when he’s barely not shaking from horrified outrage on Yuuri’s behalf.  “I’m here now, and I care about you deeply.  You’re my friend.  Whatever it takes to help you either break or learn to live with this curse, we’ll do it together.”

Yuuri trembles and gasps and sniffles in his arms.  “Thank you,” he whispers, and Viktor holds him a little tighter.

That night, something else happens that Viktor has never seen happen before: Yuuri falls asleep, right there in his arms.  He’s never seen Yuuri sleep before, the same way he’s never seen Yuuri eat before, or seen Yuuri touch anything or interact with the real world at all.  Even when he danced or sat or walked or anything, it was like he was floating more than anything, not quite real.

And yet here he is, his head tucked against Viktor’s shoulder at an angle that’ll probably hurt his neck later, eyes closed, snoozing away.  He’s adorable.  The softness in his face is even more pronounced now, especially since Yuuri is warm and solid against him, a heart beating against his own rather than a wisp of moonlight whirling endlessly out of reach.

It gives Viktor hope.  If the curse is broken like all the fairy tales say—by devotion, by faith, by love—then surely, this is a sign that it’s getting better already.  Perhaps as Yuuri’s form seems to have returned to him, his memories will soon follow.

Viktor loves him.  Of that much, he is certain.  Nobody has made him laugh, made him happy, and let him be himself the way Yuuri has. 

No matter what, though, he feels firm in his resolution to see this through, to help Yuuri.  Maybe as the curse weakens, Yuuri will be able to go to the rink with him.  Maybe he can meet Yuri and Mila and Georgi and Yakov and Lilia and they’ll love him, too, and everything will be alright…

Viktor smiles at the thought, smiles at the feeling of Yuuri’s heart beating against his chest, smiles at his beautiful dancer, asleep in his arms.

He thinks he might be slowly finding a new meaning to his skating this season.

* * *

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare…_

* * *

 Yuuri’s newfound tangibility throws some new curveballs their way.  First is the fact that his fae-like clothing is, in fact, just clothing now, and it no longer has any transparent or weird intangible qualities.  Viktor prods it while Yuuri takes a hot shower the next day, curious, and notes to himself that they’ll have to go shopping soon.

But not today.  Yakov and Lilia coming over for dinner today, and they’re going to cook.  Yakov’s been wanting to pass judgment on “Viktor’s faerie” for a while now, and Viktor knows he means well, but he’s preparing for a tense evening full of snippy comments, defending his Yuuri from the man who practically raised him.  It’s going to be exhausting.

All of these thoughts are immediately forgotten when the door opens, and with a cloud of warm steam, Yuuri walks out of the bathroom wearing some of Viktor’s leggings and one of his hoodies.  Viktor’s brain short-circuits so dramatically that he walks directly into the doorframe.

 _Ah,_ he realizes, not for the first time.  _I’m gay._

Yuuri is looking at him oddly, laughing in a way that does _things_ to Viktor’s heart.  Very, very unfair things.  “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yes, just fine,” Viktor assures him as he dusts himself off and accepts that he has no dignity left.  Makkachin nudges his leg as if to agree as she walks past him to go sniff Yuuri’s feet, and Yuuri’s face lights up as he drops to his knees to coo over her.  “I just forgot to look where I was going, that’s all.”

Yuuri looks up at him with a teasing grin.  “So the world’s top figure skater can’t even walk in a straight line, huh?”

 _Well, yeah, there is nothing straight about me,_ Viktor wants to joke, but the words die on his tongue because Yuuri is still looking up at him with laughter dancing in his eyes, and he’s holding Makkachin happily and wearing Viktor’s clothes, and a pang of wistful longing strikes him hard enough that he almost sways on his feet.  This is—this is…

This is all he wants.

His feet carry him across the floor easily, and he drops to his knees too, wrapping his arms around Yuuri and pulling him into a tight hug, while Makkachin huffs that Yuuri’s attention has been diverted.  Viktor just holds on a little tighter and sways them back and forth.

Yuuri hugs him back and chuckles, though he seems confused.  “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Very,” Viktor assures him, and this time he can’t quite resist turning his head, and his lips brush Yuuri’s nose.  He suddenly wants, wildly, desperately wants, to cover the rest of Yuuri’s face with kisses, to pin him down and tickle him and make him laugh and kiss him some more, to hold him close and never let go.  The vehemence of his own desire startles him, and he stumbles back from the hug as his face reddens, quickly turning to Makkachin to hide his own turmoil.  “And a kiss for my best girl, too!”

When he sneaks a glance back to Yuuri, his face is red, and his fingers are brushing the tip of his nose, where Viktor’s lips were a moment ago.  Viktor pretends not to notice.

Later, he puts on loud pop from the nineties as they start cooking for dinner with Yakov and Lilia, and Yuuri surprises him by grabbing his hands and twirling him around the kitchen.

“Whoa!”

Yuuri laughs down at him, keeps him held securely in a dip for a few beats, and then pulls him back upright and sends him into a spin.  The vegetables they’re supposed to be chopping lie forgotten on the countertop as he places his hands on Yuuri’s hips and draws him closer, stepping from side to side with the beat, and Yuuri loops his arms around his neck.  Every inch of their skin that touches is electrifying.

“I’ve wanted to dance with you ever since I first saw you,” Viktor confides, a few minutes later, when they’re both out of breath and flushed from exertion, looking ruefully at the untouched vegetables.  Yuuri leans against his side, and Viktor wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.  There’s still years’ worth of loneliness he has to make up to his dear … friend?  “Friend” doesn’t seem to encompass the specific type of closeness he feels for Yuuri, but they aren’t “lovers”, either.  Yuuri is just… his Yuuri.

“I… never knew,” his Yuuri says softly.  “Most of the time, the fae would only want to watch me dance.  They never wanted to dance _with_ me.”

Viktor gives him a gentle squeeze.  “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not with them anymore, then.”

Yuuri melts against him for a moment, hugging him fiercely enough to lift him off the ground for a moment (he absolutely does not squeak, definitely not).  Then he looks up at Viktor, wonder in his eyes.

“I’m _hungry,”_ he marvels, because he hasn’t been hungry for a long time, not until his body started become corporeal again, and Viktor is so excited for him that he scoops him up and twirls him around and around and around.

Despite all their dancing, they eventually manage to get dinner ready and waiting.  Yuuri, who doesn’t have any other clothes to wear for the moment aside from the fae garb, settles down in the sitting room nearest to the kitchen while Viktor hurries upstairs to go change and get ready for their guests.

When he comes back downstairs, Makkachin is whining.

Alarmed, he rushes into the sitting room to find Yuuri curled up in a ball in an armchair, shaking and gasping, while Makkachin nuzzles at his head and whines some more.

“Yuuri!”  He drops to his knees in front of the chair, reaching out, but Yuuri smacks his hands away.

“D-don’t!”

“Yuuri, what’s wrong?” he begs, frantic and desperate.  Yuuri is hyperventilating, horribly pale, and terror seizes at Viktor’s chest.  “What’s happening, darling?  What do you need?  Should I call a doctor?”

“No!” Yuuri wheezes.  “’M fine.”

Makkachin whines again, a soft, sad keen.  Yuuri latches onto her and chokes on a horrible, dry sob.

“Yuuri,” Viktor pleads.  “Talk to me.”

“No!  Go away!  Y-you’re _Viktor Nikiforov!”_ Yuuri cries, clutching Makkachin tighter.  She licks his ear and whines again, and Viktor rocks back, stunned, the color slowly draining from his world as if it never came back in the first place. 

_You’re Viktor Nikiforov._

Just an hour ago they were laughing together in the kitchen.  What … what did he do?  What did he do wrong?

“You… don’t want me because I’m … because I’m Viktor Nikiforov?”

“Yes!  Go _away,”_ Yuuri begs, sobbing, and heart breaking in his chest, Viktor can do nothing but that.  He slowly backs away and meanders numbly back upstairs, passes his bedroom and the secondary kitchen, passes another sitting room, keeps going, until he finds himself in the library.  It’s as good a place as any to pretend to pass time while confused and upset and weary and apprehensive; he sinks into the dusty velvet sofa furthest from the door and buries his face in his hands.

A few minutes pass.  It can’t have been that many, because Yakov and Lilia still aren’t here, but it’s definitely long enough for Viktor to ponder every little thing he’s ever done wrong in his life.  What did he do?  What did he _do?_ He’s Viktor Nikiforov.  He’s a skater, an international icon, world-famous and hotly contested as a bachelor.  Is that it?  It’s just who he is, and that suddenly became too much for Yuuri?  That’s not _fair,_ he wants to cry, because he can’t help being who he is, but…

But then there are soft footsteps in the hall, and the door opens, and Yuuri’s voice calls, uncertain and wavery and a little hoarse, “Viktor?”

Weary, Viktor lifts his head.  “I’m here,” he says, and silently drops it back into his hands.

More footsteps, and then a hand tentatively comes to rest on his shoulder.  Silently, he places one of his own over it.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmurs.  “I’m sorry.  I… I remembered something else.  While you were—while you were upstairs.  And I just… I panicked.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m so sorry, Viktor, _please_ don’t be angry—”

“I’m not angry,” Viktor interrupts, his eyes still closed.  He’s just so _tired._ Is he not enough? 

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks, his voice small.  “I feel like you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not,” Viktor says wearily.  “I just.  I don’t understand.  Why did remembering something make you not want me anymore, just because I’m _Viktor Nikiforov?”_

Yuuri lets out a little gasping breath, and Viktor finally looks up at him.  His eyes are red and puffy, his face blotchy from tears.  “I’m _sorry,”_ he says again, and this time, Viktor’s heart is too fragile to handle it.  He reaches up, pulls Yuuri closer, and tugs him down, and Yuuri willingly collapses against him, clinging to his arm as a little cloud of dust goes up from the sofa.

“I just want to understand,” Viktor says plaintively.  “What did I do?”

“It wasn’t anything you did,” Yuuri sniffles, hanging his head.  “I’m sorry.  It was me.  I just—when—when I was little.  I was twelve.  That was right before they t-took me.  I saw you, on TV, and I remember, I remember I was so inspired that I thought I really, really wanted to take up competitive figure skating.  I’d skated before a little, but never like that, and it was—it was because of you.  I was a dancer before I was a skater.  I guess… I never did get to see if that would have worked out for me, though.”

He laughs humorlessly.  Viktor stares up at him, his eyes wide.  He … he inspired his Yuuri?  All those years ago, Yuuri was at home with his family and saw Viktor and felt inspired?  The same way Viktor saw him and felt inspired?

Viktor crushes him in a hug, suddenly emotional all over again for reasons he cannot name.  Yuuri sniffles and clings to him, body still braced for rejection in a way that hurts Viktor to feel, and he rubs Yuuri’s back to try and smooth it away.

“Yuuri…”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri mumbles again, holding on a little tighter.  “I just.  I panicked when I remembered.  I don’t—I don’t know why.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Viktor murmurs.  “It’s okay.  Yuuri.  Yuuri.  My Yuuri.”

He strokes Yuuri’s hair as he says his name, and Yuuri lets out a shaky breath and starts to relax in his arms, slowly but surely, until his hands find their way to Viktor’s hair and start mirroring the gesture.  Viktor closes his eyes and accepts, fully, that he is in love.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers.  “I never wanted to hurt you.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Viktor whispers back.  “I shouldn’t have pried.  I’m sorry, too.”

They’re silent for a few seconds, just holding each other, just existing together.  Then Yuuri lifts his head and presses a quiet kiss to the tip of Viktor’s nose, just like Viktor did to him (a lifetime ago) this morning, and Viktor feels something shift and settle in his chest, sinking into a place that feels like _home_.

“If me being Viktor Nikiforov is too much,” he begins, but Yuuri shakes his head vehemently.

“It’s not,” he interjects, but Viktor touches his lips with a fingertip to hush him, because he’s not quite finished.

“If me being Viktor Nikiforov is too much,” he repeats, swallowing.  “Then could I, maybe, just be your Vitya?”

The protest on Yuuri’s lips dies, replaced by a soft little smile.

“My Vitya,” Yuuri repeats, wonder in his voice, and leans in slightly, until their foreheads are pressed together and all Viktor would have to do to kiss him would be to lift his chin.  “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” Viktor breathes, and tips his face up.  Their lips brush just as the doorbell rings.

* * *

_Ho paura di perderti…_

* * *

“I’m home!” Viktor calls, and as the door closes behind him, Makkachin comes running, her paws skittering on the hardwood floor.  He drops to his knees to greet her, laughing, and coos as she excitedly licks at his entire face.  “My baby Makka-Makka-chinny-chin!  Who’s my good girl?  Oh, yes, yes!  It’s you, it’s you!  Did you miss me?  Did you miss me, Makka?  I missed you today, oh yes I did!  Who’s my best girl?  Who’s my best girl, Makkachinny-chin-chin?  Awww, yes, yes.  Yes, it’s you, yes it is!”

Makkachin wags her tail and licks his nose, which makes him laugh again as he loses his balance and topples onto his back; she wags her tail harder and takes advantage of his new position to plant two paws on his chest.

“Oof!  Makka!  Makka, you’re a big, _heavy_ girl!” Viktor wheezes, still laughing. 

After a little more playful hugging and tussling, he manages to get back on his feet and heads upstairs to shower and change into pajamas.  “Yuuri, I’m home!”

There is no answer, which is… odd.  A little niggling doubt of fear suddenly pops up in Viktor’s chest—what if something happened?  What if the fae reappeared and renewed Yuuri’s curse?  What if they took him away altogether again?  He’s always waiting for Viktor to come home in the evenings these days, welcoming him back more often than not with hugs and tea.  And, as of last week, kisses, too. 

“Where’s our Yuuri, Makkachin?”  He casts a mournful look down at the curly mass of fur pressed against his legs.  She’s not distressed, so nothing must be seriously wrong; he takes solace in that fact as she attempts to wind between his knees and trip him.  “Where’d he go?”

Makkachin sneezes.

“Thanks,” Viktor tells her.  “That clears up a lot.”

Shaking his head, he sticks his head into the kitchen, his bedroom, Yuuri’s bedroom, and the ballroom, but all of them are empty.  Makkachin grows weary of following him around the mansion and curls up in a patch of sunlight in the front sitting room, while Viktor tries not to fret.  Maybe Yuuri is in the gardens!  He did say he liked to go out there sometimes, and the weather isn’t bad today.  That’s probably it.

Mind made up to stay calm and not to overthink things, Viktor goes and takes a quick, hot shower.  Everything will be fine.  Yuuri will be fine.  Nothing is wrong, the fae didn’t touch him, and he’s fine.

When he steps out of the shower and ties his robe around his waist, he hears a thump outside the bathroom door—Makkachin, no doubt—which would mean nothing in particular, only that it’s followed by the most beautiful laugh in the world, and it’s suddenly all he can do to keep himself from singing in relief.

What he does, instead of that, is throw open the bathroom door and promptly tackle Yuuri to his bed with a combination hug and kiss that knocks the wind from both of them.

“Yuuri!  There you are!  I’m so happy to see you,” he exclaims, letting the press of his lips to Yuuri’s cheeks wash away the last of his fears from before.  “How are you?  How was your day?  What did you do while I was at practice?”

“You’re _heavy,_ ” Yuuri complains, but he’s laughing, teasing, though his face is completely pink.  “Hi.  I missed you, too?”

Viktor rolls off of him but doesn’t let go, instead pulling him close as they both lie on their sides, facing each other, feet still dangling off the bed.  “Are you okay?”

Yuuri blinks.  “Yes?  Why wouldn’t I be?”

And now his worry seems silly, doesn’t it?  Of _course_ nothing happened.  But now Yuuri is looking at him with big expectant brown eyes, and there isn’t much Viktor can do in the face of that gentle concern.  He pouts.  “Don’t laugh at me, okay?”

“Of course not,” Yuuri assures.  “I only do that if you do something that deserves to be laughed at.”

Viktor levels him a playfully cross look, and he laughs.

“Okay, okay.  I won’t laugh.”

Viktor pouts for a moment, then sobers and sighs.  “When I got home and I couldn’t find you, I … got worried something might have happened.  I don’t know.  With the … with your curse, or something.  I was scared you were just gone.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Yuuri breathes, his eyes growing wide, and oh, he’s not laughing, not at all.  Viktor studies him, looks at the sparkle of emotion in his eyes, is about to ask if he’s alright when he surges forward and kisses Viktor firmly, hugging him tight tight tight.  He kisses him again and again, over and over until they’re both absolutely breathless and flushed and awed.

Viktor tenderly strokes his hair back from his face. “Are you … are you alright, Yuuri?”

“I—yes, I just—” Yuuri takes a breath and shakes his head, a little guilty shadow creeping into his eyes.  “I… forgot how it nice feels to have someone care enough to worry about me like that.  I’m—I’m sorry!  I didn’t want you to worry, I just—I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine,” Viktor murmurs, his thumb caressing the curve of Yuuri’s cheekbone.  “It’s fine.  Where were you, if you want to tell me?”

The shadow falls away completely as Yuuri’s face lights up in a positively luminous smile.  “I went for a walk,” he says, beaming, “and I brought back groceries.”

Viktor is so surprised that he sits up.  “You mean you left the grounds and you felt okay?”

Yuuri sits up too, albeit only to tackle Viktor back down to the bed with an excited “I did!”

“Yuuri!”  Viktor hugs him gleefully, lets go to look at his excited grin again, then pulls him down into another kiss, this one clumsier and sillier than the last.  Yuuri starts giggling against his lips, and Viktor peppers his face with excited kisses.  The curse is wearing off more and more every day; Yuuri hasn’t left the mansion grounds in over two years, and now he managed to go out and get groceries!  He’s come so far from a sad little dancing ghost in the moonlight, and Viktor couldn’t be more elated.  _“Yuuri!”_

Yuuri hugs him again and keeps laughing, happy and excited and so, so beautiful.  “I did it!  I went all the way to town and I felt _fine!”_

“You did it, you did it, you did it!” Viktor crows.  Another thought hits him, and he gives Yuuri a mighty squeeze, even more excited.  “This means maybe you can come to practice and watch me soon!  And then after that we can go out for dinner, or go to the movies, or anything we want!  We should get you a phone, and more proper clothes, and—”

“Wait, wait, Vitya, before you get too excited… I don’t know if the curse is just _gone,_ ” Yuuri hesitates, deflating slightly.  “It might just be that it’s gradually letting go of me, just like my memories are coming back in bits and pieces.  I still don’t remember so many things…”

“That’s okay,” Viktor says, softening.  “Take your time, sweetheart.  Let’s just celebrate today!  That’s still a big accomplishment!  What groceries did you bring home?  We should bake something good.  What about cookies?”

“Is that allowed in your athlete’s diet?” Yuuri asks.  He rolls aside so he’s not quite on top of Viktor, but lays his cheek on his shoulder and drapes an arm and leg across him.  His Yuuri is very soft and cuddly today.  Viktor loves it. 

“Well, maybe not strictly.”  Viktor shrugs.  “But Yakov doesn’t have to know, and I think this is an occasion worth celebrating, don’t you?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Yuuri laughs.  “You’re right.  Let’s celebrate!”

That evening, as Yuuri spins him through a jive in the kitchen while the cookies bake, Viktor feels a wistful ache settle into his heart.  It’s not until he’s lying in bed and Yuuri is snuggled up at his side, not quite wanting to sleep alone today, that he realizes what it is.  He kind of wants to laugh at himself.

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmurs, tracing idle patterns on his chest.  “You saved me.  Without you, I would… I wouldn’t be…”

Viktor kisses the top of his head and smiles when that makes him blush.  Wasn’t he the one smothering Viktor in kisses earlier today?

“You’re welcome,” Viktor murmurs back, lips brushing his dark hair.  “And thank _you._   Maybe it was less drastic for me, but you saved me, too.”

When Yuuri smiles, Viktor can feel it against his collarbone.  He smiles back.

It’s a different kind of longing than what he felt in the past.  That was a wistful yearning to attain something he’d never held, to finally grasp something that always seemed just out of reach.  This, though, this… isn’t that.  This is the deep-rooted, burning desire to hold onto what he has, to protect and cherish, to love and to be loved forever.

He thinks, perhaps, that this might be called _contentment_. 

When he falls asleep that night, curled up and cozy with Yuuri in his arms, he dreams about laughing with the sun.

* * *

_Le tue mani, le tue gambe,_ _  
Le mie mani, le mie gambe…_

* * *

Viktor wakes alone in the middle of the night.

This is not a wholly unusual circumstance—Yuuri doesn’t always sleep in his bed, and sometimes he likes to stay up late, dancing or walking or watching movies on his phone or Viktor’s laptop—but after a month of growing used to the warmth of Yuuri’s body in bed with him, he misses it sorely.  Even if they aren’t cuddling, just looking over and knowing he has someone else there, hearing Yuuri’s soft breaths or reaching over to touch his hand ever so lightly, he would feel reassured.

Now, he sighs.  He’s wide awake and he knows it, and experience says there’s really no point in trying to go back to sleep, not while he’s this wired.  He might as well get up and be productive, or… something.

Makkachin lifts her head and blinks at him when he slides out of bed, hissing at the chill of the room, but she’s used to this too, so all she does is wriggle under the blanket to leech the warmth from the hollow left by his body.  Viktor smiles at that and kisses the top of her head before he leaves the bedroom.  Tea sounds good.

He’s in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when he hears the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR5USHu6D6U).

After that, he finds himself a man entranced.  He waits long enough to pour hot water into two mugs with waiting bags of chamomile, then places them on a tray and shuffles out of the kitchen, heading directly to the ballroom.  The music swells and grows louder with every step. 

It’s a familiar tune—Tchaikovsky, he knows—and it’s beautiful, both pensive and sweet.  It reminds him of someone he loves.

When he nudges open the ballroom door, he has to stop and catch his breath at the sight that awaits; no amount of time could ever prepare him for how beautiful Yuuri is when he dances.  No familiarity could ever strip him of this awe, this pride, this love.  Yuuri is more solid than he was, before—his feet connect with the floor, and when he leaps he doesn’t hang suspended in the air for quite as long—but he’s still absolutely and utterly enchanting, and Viktor is a man bewitched.

“Oh,” he breathes, watching Yuuri twist into a deliciously deep bend.  “Oh, I _love_ you.”

He waits for the track to end before stepping forward to make his presence known, watching and smiling so hard his cheeks start to ache as Yuuri flings his arms skyward and twirls and twirls, elegant as the breeze.  He’s warmer than the moonlight, more vibrant than ever before.  His face flushes from exertion, his chest heaves for breath, and Viktor loves him so deeply he might drown in it.

“I brought you tea,” he says when the final notes ring in the air, and Yuuri pivots so gracefully it’s almost impossible to see that he’s startled.  He always loses himself in his dancing.  “I hope you have water to drink too, though.”

The beginning strains of the harp begin to sound again, and Yuuri hurries to the side of the room, leaning down with one beautifully poised leg extended behind him for balance so that he can pause the music on his new phone.

“I don’t make music when I dance anymore,” he says, wonder in his voice.  Viktor holds out an arm, and he flits across the ballroom to smush himself into Viktor’s chest, smiling.  “Do you think that means I’m properly human again?”

“I don’t think you ever stopped being human,” Viktor replies, nuzzling his nose, “but I do think it means you’re very close to being done with that curse, if you aren’t already.”

“That’s true,” Yuuri hums, leaning into him.  He’s still breathing hard, trying to catch his breath after a strenuous dance.  “That’s… that’s true!  The first spell they put on me was the one to make music when I dance, actually.  It was for—it was for dancing for them, in the courts.”

“Well, then,” Viktor says, and stops.

“Thank you for the tea,” Yuuri adds.  He reaches for the tray that Viktor has placed atop the dusty, out-of-tune grand piano, and takes one steaming mug to blow on it.  “Smells good.”

“You’re welcome,” Viktor smiles.  He kisses Yuuri’s temple, then makes a face.  “Salty.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch.  “Yes, well, I don’t know if you figure skaters know this, but sweat happens when you exercise, sometimes.”

Viktor grins, blowing on his own tea, and leans back against the piano, draping his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders.  They stand together for a minute or two in companionable silence, until Yuuri hooks his arm around Viktor’s waist and sighs.

Viktor looks down at him with one raised eyebrow.  “Is everything alright?”

“I remembered a lot of things.”  Yuuri lays his head on his shoulder.  “Mostly while I was dreaming, I think.  I woke up and my head felt very, uh, full?  So I decided to dance.  Did I wake you?  Sorry.”

“No, no, you didn’t,” Viktor assures.  “I just woke up because I missed you.”

“Cheeseball.”

“Your cheeseball.”

Yuuri smiles.  “True.”

Viktor kisses his brow, and this time doesn’t complain about any salt whatsoever.  Yuuri favors him with a tiny look of pure adoration, one so heartbreakingly gorgeous that Viktor wants to frame it in the Louvre itself.  Yuuri’s face, painted by moonlight and kissed by love, is more beautiful than any other work of art in the world, and he would gladly proclaim it from the rooftops, if Yuuri wanted that of him.

Instead, he just turns himself back to the conversation at present, though he can’t resist pressing another kiss to Yuuri’s forehead first.  “Did dancing help you sort your head out?”

Yuuri lets out a slow sigh.  “Yes…”

It sounds like there’s more to that, so Viktor raises his eyebrow again and waits.

“I remembered the rest of my name,” Yuuri mumbles, closing his eyes.  “And my hometown.  And my family’s names.  I mostly—I mostly remembered names.  I finally remembered their names, Vitya.  Finally.”

“Names are powerful things,” Viktor murmurs, echoing what Yuuri told him once, long ago, in this very same ballroom.  It seems to have been the right thing to say, because Yuuri relaxes against him and blows on his tea again.  “I’m happy for you.  Did you remember anything else?”

“They’re still alive,” Yuuri whispers.  “I… I looked them up.  My hometown isn’t large.  My family ran—runs—a hot springs inn.  They’re still there.  I almost—I almost called them, but I was scared.  Do you think they remember me?”

He sounds so soft, so open, so vulnerable, that Viktor’s heart breaks on the spot, and he puts his tea down to take Yuuri into both of his arms.

“Darling,” he croons, pressing him close.  “No one could _ever_ forget you.”

“You… I think you’re a little biased about that,” Yuuri protests, but he puts his tea aside too and wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist, his nose bumping Viktor’s shoulder.

“Why?  Because I love you?”

Yuuri fidgets and squirms in his arms.  “…Yes?”

Viktor squeezes him tighter.  “They loved you too, didn’t they?”

“…Yeah.  They, um.  They did.”

“Then there’s no way they don’t remember you,” Viktor says firmly.  “Take it from someone who also loves you.  You’re unforgettable, Yuuri…”

He trails off, asking a silent question, and Yuuri takes a shaky breath before he answers.  “Katsuki.  Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor echoes.  Yuuri lifts his head and looks up at him, plaintively asking for a kiss, a kiss that Viktor is all too happy to give him.  It’s slow and unhurried and tender, and Yuuri is soft and pliant in his arms, his hands gentle and loving as they cradle the back of Viktor’s head and neck.

When he pulls away, Yuuri smiles up at him.  “I love you,” he says, firm and certain.  It’s the first time he’s said it out loud in so many words.  Viktor is so stunned that he almost forgets to kiss him again.

“I love you too,” he says breathlessly, when he pulls away, and Yuuri smiles radiantly.  “I love you too, Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri’s hands trace their way from his shoulders down his arms, to his wrists and then his hands.  “My Vitya.  Will you dance with me?”

Viktor is putty in his hands.  Yuuri could ask him to clean all the bathrooms in the mansion, right now at half past one in the morning, and he would do it without a second thought or a complaint.  Dancing with him is, quite literally, a dream come true.  “I would love nothing more.”

Yuuri takes his hand and leads him first to the phone plugged into the speakers, where he puts on a slow waltz, and then to the center of the floor.  “Our tea needs to cool down a bit so we can drink it anyway,” he points out, as if he needs a reason to sweep Viktor off his feet all over again, and Viktor just nods and agrees.

Oh, if this is what enchantment feels like, with Yuuri in his arms and joy threatening to overflow from his heart, Viktor never wants to return to a normal world.

* * *

_E i battiti del cuore_ _  
Si fondono tra loro…_

* * *

 One of the most adorable things about Yuuri is what a morning person he is _not._ He came to the rink with Viktor yesterday, like he does sometimes, to watch him practice, and grumbled all the way through.  It was one of the cutest things Viktor has ever seen in his entire life, aside from Makkachin as a puppy—knowing how much Yuuri likes to sleep in and yet having him _choose_ to come into town and be with him, well, that felt good.

He dances sometimes, under Lilia’s watchful and stern gaze.  Lilia adores Yuuri, though Viktor knows she probably would never say so out loud.  Even with the last vestiges of the curse gone, he still dances with an otherworldly, ethereal air, a hint that he is something sharp, something _more_ hiding just below the surface.  Everyone could see it, when Yuuri danced in front of them for the first time.  Viktor still laughs when he thinks about the stunned look on little Yuri’s face.

And now, on a day off, soft and tired Yuuri is blearily stumbling around the kitchen, muttering to himself as he stares into the coffee Viktor hands him as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it.  Viktor chuckles and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in to press a kiss to his temple.

“Morning, honey.”

“Mmnghmph,” Yuuri groans into his shoulder.  Viktor supposes that’s the closest thing to a “morning” he’s going to get before nine and just smiles, rubbing Yuuri’s back and sipping his own coffee as he leans against the countertop.

“Ready for today’s plan?”

Yuuri freezes against him, waking up a little more, no doubt.  “…No?”

Viktor kisses his temple again.  “You won’t have to do any of the talking if you don’t want to.  I can handle it.”

Yuuri huffs and sighs and presses a little closer, seeking comfort.  Viktor is always happy to provide; he tightens the arm around Yuuri’s waist and nuzzles his hair, humming softly, and sways them slightly back and forth.

“Vitya, it’s just… are you sure they’d even… I don’t know.  Care about me anymore?”  Yuuri fidgets with a pom-pom on Viktor’s sweater and sighs.  “It’s been eleven years…”

“Like I told you,” Viktor reminds him, “anyone who has ever loved you could never, ever forget you.  They still care.  And if they don’t, they never deserved you to begin with, dear.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath.  “Okay,” he finally says, leaning into Viktor a little more.  “Okay.  I can do this.”

“You can do this,” Viktor agrees.  “You absolutely can.”

Yuuri kisses his shoulder and holds him a little tighter in a silent thanks.  Viktor leans his cheek against his darling’s hair and sips his coffee some more, content to stand there and bask in early-morning bliss.

After breakfast, the two of them settle down in their favorite sitting room, the one with the big cozy hearth that Makkachin likes to nap in front of, and stare at the webpage Yuuri found, the one detailing the contact information for “Yutopia Akatsuki”, the hot springs inn his family owns.  (Or, rather, Yuuri stares at it, frozen, while Viktor punches the number into his phone and waits.)

Eventually, he nudges Yuuri’s leg with his own.  “Ready?”

Yuuri turns to him and flings his arms around him, buries his face in his neck, and nods.  Viktor chuckles, threading his fingers through Yuuri’s hair in what he hopes is a soothing fashion.

“You know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Yuuri assures him quickly.  “I’m just, um, I’m just nervous.”

“I can hold you the entire time?” Viktor offers, leaning his head against Yuuri’s again.  Yuuri fervently nods against his shoulder.

“Please.”

Viktor turns his head to press a kiss into that lovely, soft, dark hair.  “Gladly.  Are you ready for me to call, or do you want to wait a little longer?  Either is fine by me, dear.  Whatever you want.”

“I… guess we should just get it over with,” Yuuri mumbles.  “I mean, me waiting is just going to turn into me stressing out even more about it.  If—if they don’t want me back, I might as well find out and be done with it, you know?”

That brings up another little fear, one Viktor has been trying to ignore.  If they want Yuuri back, will Yuuri leave?  He certainly couldn’t try to hold him back if he wanted to go, but god, he doesn’t want Yuuri to go.  It’s selfish of him, but he’d be so lonely again…

But that doesn’t matter.  That’s not the point.  What’s important right now is _Yuuri._

“They’ll want you,” Viktor assures him again.  “If they loved you, they’ll still want you.”

He presses _call_.

The phone is picked up on the second ring, answered by a cheerful-sounding woman who greets him in, presumably, Japanese, which Viktor regrettably understands not a word of.  He furrows his brow.  “Ah, English?”

“One moment,” the woman says, and there are some muffled sounds before a new woman’s voice, a little deeper than the first, greets him.

“Hello, you’ve reached Yu-topia Akatsuki.  How can I help you?”

“Hi!” Viktor chirps.  “Ah, my name is Viktor Nikiforov, and—”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the line.  “Viktor Nikiforov?  Figure skater?”

Viktor blinks, glancing down at Yuuri, who is clinging to him and pointedly not looking up.  His ears are red.  Is he blushing?  He knows Viktor finds him adorable and lovely, right?

“Yes,” he answers, perhaps a moment late.  “Figure skater.  You know me?”

“My little brother was very inspired by your skating, years ago,” the woman says, and a little piece of the puzzle neatly slots itself into place—this is Mari, Yuuri’s big sister.  In his arms, Viktor can feel Yuuri tensing.  “Anyway, yeah.  What can I do for you?”

“Actually, about your little brother,” Viktor begins, and this is the hard part.  He squeezes Yuuri close with the arm not holding the phone, nuzzling his temple when he lifts his head slightly, and Yuuri looks up at him with wide eyes.  “Yuuri Katsuki, right?  Disappeared when he was twelve?”

“Why are you asking?”  Mari sounds guarded now, on edge.  That’s fair.  If he had a missing family member and a stranger called out of the blue and started talking about them, he figures he would probably be on edge, too.

Regardless, Viktor puts on his best awkward-phone-conversation smile and says, "I may have found him?"

_“What?”_

Forging on quickly, before any more questions can be demanded of him, Viktor continues. “And he is, um, living here with me in Russia?  You see, when I found him he had lost his memory, and we’ve been working on piecing it back together, and he only lately remembered his family and their names so that we could contact you, and he’s actually been very afraid that it’s been too long and you wouldn’t want him back, in which case I would have to say it’s your loss, but—”

“Vitya!” Yuuri hisses, clutching his arm.  Viktor stops, a little sheepishly.

“Is he there?” Mari demands.  “Is he there with you right now?”

“He is.”

“Give him the phone.”

Viktor looks at Yuuri, who looks back at him nervously but nods, and passes the phone over.  The good thing about this is that it frees up both of his arms to hold Yuuri, which he does, tugging him into his lap and hugging him close as his sister says something in Japanese and he responds in kind.

They have a short conversation that ends with Yuuri, wide-eyed, looking at Viktor and whispering, “She’s going to get her—my— _our_ parents,” before he gets pulled back into a long, tearful discussion in Japanese.  Viktor tries not to fret that he doesn’t know what’s going on.  Yuuri starts to cry at one point, but he’s quick to reassure Viktor with a wavery smile that these are happy tears, and Viktor kisses his cheeks and lets him be.

Two hours later, Yuuri finally hangs up.  He immediately drops the phone to the couch and turns to hug Viktor fiercely, starting to cry again, and Viktor holds him as long as he needs, rubbing his back and crooning sweet nothings against his ear.

Eventually, he quiets.  “My—my parents want us to come visit as soon as possible,” he says, threading his fingers into the hair just above the nape of Viktor’s neck.  Viktor closes his eyes at the sensation and sighs.  “I told them we’d try soon.”

“Us?  We?” Viktor echoes.

Yuuri gives him an odd look, his fingers stilling.  “Of course, us.  Did you think I’d just leave you behind?”

“I… don’t know what I thought,” Viktor confesses.  Yuuri shakes his head and kisses him.  He tastes like salty tears.  He’s perfect.

“Without you, I never would have found them again.  And they want to meet you, too.  Especially because I told them you’re the only reason I… you know, am here.  Like this.  You broke my curse.”

“I love you,” Viktor murmurs. 

Yuuri smiles.  “I love you, too.”

“I’d love to meet your family, Yuuri,” Viktor says softly, then tilts his head to the side, a little concerned.  “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Yuuri says resolutely, and then blinks, as if he surprised himself.  “Really, really good.”

“I’m glad.”  Viktor smiles.  His legs are numb from having Yuuri in his lap for so long, but it was absolutely worth it.  “You deserve to feel good all the time, sweetheart.”

“So do you,” Yuuri says, kissing him again.  He lingers this time, and Viktor melts a little, his hand sliding up to caress Yuuri’s jaw and deepening the kiss.  Yuuri smiles at that, and Viktor kisses him again.

It’s funny, he thinks later, as they start to look at airplane tickets together, discussing packing and the length of their stay and whether to bring Makkachin or to get someone to dogsit.  It’s very domestic and feels normal.  Like life just goes on, as usual.  Nothing feels like it’s ended today.  Nothing feels like it’s over.  In fact, if anything, they’ve just started a whole new adventure together.  It’s exciting.

“I can’t wait til we go,” he tells Yuuri one evening, rubbing his shoulders and grinning when Yuuri moans and melts against him.  “I’m looking forward to meeting your family, Yuuri.”

Yuuri lets out a breathy little laugh, reaching up to intertwine his fingers with Viktor’s.  “I’m excited, too.  I hope it all goes well.”

“I think it will,” Viktor hums, squeezing his hand.  “But if it doesn’t, no matter what happens, we’ll face it and take care of it.  Together.”

“Together,” Yuuri echoes, and smiles.

* * *

_Partiamo insieme  
Ora sono pronto…_

**Author's Note:**

> Italian lyrics taken from Stammi Vicino's page on the YOI wiki.
> 
> Happy Halloween!!!! :D


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